


Nothing Could Keep Us

by onnari



Series: In Life and Death, We Meet Again [2]
Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Reunions, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24165706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onnari/pseuds/onnari
Summary: She is dreaming, she is sure. Dreaming of Greek myths and Italian greats. Carvaggio and Gentleschi and all their dramatic contrast and chiaroscuro in this vision of the underworld.But there is no Hades to meet her, or his wife, Persephone. No Cerberus or the Styx. She is already in this world’s midst, drawn towards the one piece of light that the darkness strays from: the glow of a woman in white garb. An image straight out of Marianne’s unfinished painting.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Series: In Life and Death, We Meet Again [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744069
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	Nothing Could Keep Us

**Author's Note:**

> For S again: HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I could not ask for a better friend, and I can't wait until we can also properly reunite!! xx
> 
> And so, time to get even more dramatic.

Marianne is old enough to have grown acquainted and familiar with death. She knows that there is not a corner of the earth it does not touch and that it does not matter where Héloïse is in it; her time will come, just as Marianne’s own will. But still—

Still she is not prepared when she makes her routine inquiries and the news reaches her. The brightest light and fire of her life extinguished. Héloïse, drowned, off the coast. 

Maybe her heart has already known it, the past weeks long and fruitless, uninspired and listless when it comes to her life and work. What artistic vision she had before sitting in front of an easel remains frustrating and elusive, her mind more focused on the ache in her wrists, the unsteadiness of her hands, as she goes to apply her paints.

In the end it is her grief that reawakens her, frees her from all other half-hearted pursuits in exchange for a singular vision. Hands shaking even worse than before, she reaches for her tools almost unconsciously, taking up a desperate act of creation.

A vision she’s always had of Héloïse and her, the Eurydice to her Orpheus, and without rest she works, drawing up the sketch and then laying down the paint, each brushstroke bringing her deeper into her piece until she swears the underworld is unfolding from her canvas. That it is upon her, swallowing her up until it is all she knows, her room, even her paints and work, vanished.

She is dreaming, she is sure. Dreaming of Greek myths and Italian greats. Carvaggio and Gentleschi and all their dramatic contrast and chiaroscuro in this vision of the underworld. 

But there is no Hades to meet her, or his wife, Persephone. No Cerberus or the Styx. She is already in this world’s midst, drawn towards the one piece of light that the darkness strays from: the glow of a woman in white garb. An image straight out of Marianne’s unfinished painting.

Marianne stops, her whole body shaking. Héloïse does not—not until they’re less than an arm’s reach away from each other. 

“You came to see me?” Héloïse asks, and she is not whole, not really, a mere shade with a translucency to her figure. Still, that line that’s always been there between her brows deepens as she trembles herself. “But you’re not dead.”

“Am I not?” Marianne says faintly, wanting something to hold on to, but there is only Héloïse, no more than an apparition, she is sure. “Then I must be dreaming, wanting to see you once more.”

But when Héloïse reaches for her, there is a pressure to her grip, her fingers locked tight around Marianne’s own. In answer, in reverence, Héloïse raises her other hand, cradling Marianne’s face and holding her in place as she places a kiss to her mouth.

“Could a dream be so good?” Héloïse asks, pulling away, and Marianne comes to, shocked back to life and awareness, enough to use the eye of an artist—the eye of a lover looking upon the best creation has offered to her. She looks closer and sees the details she’d missed from her painting, the years wrought into Héloïse’s frame and face, a different sculpture but just as beloved as ever in its alterations. New lines and contours to learn and her hands are eager for it, holding Héloïse back as tightly as she is held, the two of them swaying together.

“I was just at my easel, painting the two of us. Our version, finally, of Orpheus and Eurydice,” she whispers into Héloïse’s ear, half delirious as she drags her lips down Héloïse’s cheek and neck, leaving a rushed trail of kisses. “And now I am here, holding you again.”

Gently, Héloïse lifts Marianne’s head, her gaze searching. “I’ve been lingering, unable to move on. Hoping but not hoping to see you. Did I mourn you too well in my death, dragging you down here?” Her eyes grow conflicted even as she half closes them, kissing Marianne once more. “Even then I thought of you.”

“And always I’ve lived with your memory,” Marianne murmurs back, tender against Héloïse’s lips. “If you called me, I answered you back, painting my own way through to you. I couldn’t help myself.” She swallows, painful. “After hearing of your passing. To think you went like that—drowning of all things. Your poor mother.” 

Héloïse shakes her head. “She’s gone ahead. She did not have to bear it.” Emotion sitrs across her face, her look as fierce as any Marianne had seen her make in life. “But don’t take pity on me. It was no mere drowning, nor was it of my own making. I went out racing across those waves, taking a hold of my life in the world. I may not have lived as merrily as some, but my days were as lively as I meant them to be. I had the means for at least that much. I’ve traveled the continent, heard great music, built a library to the envy of many.”

“Yes,” Marianne affirms. “Yes, and I’m glad for it.”

Héloïse relaxes, wraps herself closer again to Marianne. “And on my walls, art of your own making. I saw you in your brushstrokes. Took comfort in the way you saw the world.”

Marianne draws a ragged breath, tears stinging at her eyes. “I saw you too. Once at a concert—Vivaldi’s Seasons.” Marianne pauses as Héloïse shudders, her face transforming just as it had the night of that performance, both joy and grief, but Héloïse does not ask for an explanation, the reason why Marianne had not crossed over to her. They both know already. 

“And once,” Marianne adds, “your portrait. Of you and your daughter.”

Tears rise in Héloïse’s eyes as well and Marianne cannot hold herself back, reaching for the faint trails they make across Héloïse’s face. “I’d hoped you would see it. That you’d see it and remember me.”

“I did,” Marianne reassures, quietly kissing each of Héloïse’s knuckles. “You already made sure of that, calling me back that last day together. Telling me to turn and see you. Letting me have your memory.”

“Maybe it was a little selfish,” Héloïse confesses, “knowing you meant to walk away then without looking back. But I didn’t want you to leave me entirely, and I hoped—hoped that you’d at least use my memory as an inspiration for your life and work.” 

“And that is exactly as it was,” Marianne says. “Sometimes I would think back on our days together and wonder how that time, so brief, could sustain me all the rest of my life.”

In earnest they both cry then, their next exchange of kisses salty to the taste, taking and taking and giving and giving until they tremble. Again, Marianne lowers her head to Héloïse’s neck. Breathes deep. Feels Héloïse press a kiss to the top of her head, as gentle as the sea spray, before putting some distance between them.

“But you shouldn’t be here, should you? You have days to live out yet. You must return and live them.”

Marianne closes her eyes. “How could I leave you here, after all this? After finally having you back in my arms, even in this way? No,” she decides, sudden and firm and taking ahold of Héloïse’s hands. “If I am to return, you must promise to follow.”

Understanding dawns across the pall of Héloïse’s face. “You would walk out of here like Orpheus, trying to take me back?”

“Yes.”

Uncertainty plays at Héloïse’s features and Marianne aches to smooth them clear. “But you will only look back. If not for being madly in love, then for being the artist you are.”

Marianne wishes for strength, for the right words. “I’ve already lived with your memory, Héloïse. I’ve already trained a successor for my school, lived with just my art for company. Now I just want you.”

She thinks of the first time she’d let her imagination get the better of her, the first time she’d imagined them as Orpheus and Eurydice. How Héloïse had been there behind her, following Marianne down the hall. But Marianne had not turned back and there Héloïse was in the flesh when she made it to her room, waiting for her to embrace and kiss. It could be like that again, couldn’t it?

“Maybe I’m just as mad with love as always,” Marianne whispers, “but I’ve had a long life filled with your memory to steady me.” Delicately, she thumbs the side of Héloïse’s face. “So will you come?”

Héloïse’s voice wavers. “Maybe I should not, but there is nothing I’d want more than to share a little more of life with you. No matter how brief.” Another kiss they trade, their most forceful yet, until Marianne has to pull away for breath, the two of them staring at the other.

Finally, they step back until their only point of contact left is just their hands, clinging to each other. “Let us be brave this time,” Marianne says and waits for Héloïse to nod back before she closes her eyes. “Even like this I can see you. Just as I’ve seen you all my life.”

“Yes,” Héloïse answers and then Marianne can feel Héloïse’s hands traveling faintly across her body, turning her around so that Marianne’s back is turned towards her. And so Héloïse lets her go at last.

Each step is an agony, a step into the unknown. Losing all trace of Héloïse—to feel separated again after just finding each other—is a loss Marianne can hardly bear. But Marianne has her faith, her hope and her love, resounding through her. Has it to carry her even when the way back feels longer than the way she’s come, laden now with everything to lose and everything to gain.

When she opens her eyes again, the first thing she sees is her painting of their meeting in the underworld, back in her room. But the first thing she feels are arms winding around her, Héloïse pressed intently to her back. Holding on to Marianne with all the strength that comes from a life restored.

In haste Marianne turns, uncaring for the easel she knocks to the floor. They embrace each other properly then, there in the flesh. Entwined, they fall to the bed, back to the knowing of each other, neither time nor distance, life nor death, allowed to come between them.


End file.
